


The Christmas that John and Sherlock Spent as a Proper Couple

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas that John and Sherlock Spent as a Proper Couple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moffnat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/gifts).



> Secret Santa fic for the lovely Natalie. Happy Christmas and a prosperous new year.

"John." Sherlock stared in what was, for him, only describable as horror. "What. Is. That."

John looked up from sweeping the floor. "You are home. I called for help, but no one answered." He glanced at the thing he'd brought in with him and shrugged sheepishly at his flatmate/boyfriend/whatever it was they were. "Yes. Well. I bought us a Christmas tree."

"You went out into the wood, chopped down a fresh coniferous tree, dragged it back into town, and tried to get a cab to take you and it to our address."

"No," said John, indignant. He spoke softer, "Mike went out with me and helped cart it back."

Sherlock nodded. "Hm, of course. And I suppose you didn't think that it would leave behind a mess of line needles and dirt and those little bits of twig when you did bring it in? Taking care of a real tree is tedious work and it's only going to be thrown away once the holidays -"

"I thought," John interrupted, putting hand up, "that we could have a bit of fun decorating it up for Christmas. String up some lights, hang an ornament or two - it'll certainly freshen up the place a bit, I mean." He looked down at the pile of pines he'd swept up. 

"You're disappointed," Sherlock wanted to say. But he held his tongue. Instead, he said to his lover, "That sounds like a wonderful plan actually, John." The detective picked up the dustpan lying in the arm of the couch and gestured to the pile. "Would you like a hand?"

John took in Sherlock's attitude and smiled warmly. "Sure."

—

Mrs. Hudson ran up the stairs, hands over her ears. "Boys!" she cried, "what on earth was that noise?"

Sherlock's head popped out of the kitchen, earning a little shriek of surprise from his landlady. He was coved head to toe in a heavy white dust. He brightened when his gaze caught Mrs. Hudson's. "Good, you're here, we could use some help."

"Help with what?" Mrs. Hudson stepped more into the flat so she could see the whole of her boys' situation. 

Sherlock continued speaking as though they're were discussing stock. "You see, I thought it would be a good idea to bake Christmas cookies."

"You... tried baking?" asked Mrs. Hudson, incredulous. "All on your own?"

"Well, I helped." John stepped into the kitchen, equally covered in dust, top to bottom. "Well, supervised more like it. Sherlock insisted that he do it by himself." He shot a look at his boyfriend. "You can see where that landed us." 

Looking closely, the landlady could see how utterly destroyed her kitchen was. Clumps of gooey dough stuck to everything, knives of all shapes and sizes strewn about the counters and floor, and spilt sugar and flour layering the room. And her boys were covered in all of it. The oven in the corner was open, charred black and smoking. 

"What did you do, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson, stepping into the structure zone. She picked a magazine from under the flour and began waving it over the smoke. 

"He got a little - impatient," said John, grabbing the broom from the closet. "Thought he could, what was it? You were getting impatient with the speed the mix was rising or some stuff, and thought you could make it bake faster by doing some hyper micro radiation -"

"It was completely harmless," hissed Sherlock, brushing off his shirt. "Would have worked, but apparently there were some vital pieces missing in the machinery, and -"

Mrs. Hudson let out a cry when a fire suddenly began inside of the oven. She backed up behind the table, clutching her chest. Sherlock stared at the flames mildly as John went to fetch the fire extinguisher from the hallway. Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock and ran a hand through her hair. "Dear," she said, voice straining slightly. 

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. "Hm?" 

"Next time you want to try your hand at cooking," she laughed, "just ask me first for help."

— 

"Sherlock -"

"Pass me the star, John."

"Sherlock, you shouldn't -"

"I'm not a child, John, I am a grown man. You don't need to worry like a mother hen-"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You are kneeling on top of the bloody fireplace trying to reach the top of the bloody tree."

Sherlock stared down at John from his perch on top of the fireplace. "I know that." He sighed. "Will you please hand me the star now?"

John went to the box of ornaments he'd rummaged from Harry's and sorted through the antique painted glass orbs and tiny wooden houses. He picked out the star - an ancient thing, bronze and heavy. There was a cup on the back so it could be hung on the very tip of the tree. 

"Here, now quit your moaning," said John, handing the ornament to Sherlock. The detective took it and reached up for the tip of their Christmas tree, leaning out and grasping for it. John bounced in his spot. He'd insisted on merely asking Mrs. Hudson for her step ladder, but Sherlock said no. It was actually sort of a funny sight, watching the other man perched on the fireplace like some sort of enormous, incredibly high-strung house cat. "Be very careful, love."

"I am very," said Sherlock. He stretched out a bit further, the star wavering between his fingertips. So close... He inched forward, practically tossing the star onto the top of the tree. 

John saw it happen before Sherlock realized it was happening. The younger man's knee slipped a bit too far over the fireplace, and suddenly Sherlock tumbled off the edge. With reflexes only a man who'd served could have, John was grabbing Sherlock around the waist and pulled hm closet using his body to cushion his fall as they both hit the ground. 

The two men groaned as they disentangled themselves, John especially. Sherlock rolled off of his doctor, face placid but eyes wide. They stayed there on the floor, breathing next to each other. 

"Thank you," Sherlock finally said in a strained voice. "I suppose an 'I told you so' is to be in order then. Well, let me have it."

John shook his head. "No, I think the lesson you've learned is good enough for today."

"And what makes you think I've learned any kind of lesson from all this?"

"Because." John leaned in close to Sherlock and pressed his palm against the detective's chest. "I can feel your heart beating a million miles an hour."

Sherlock didn't bother mentioning how biologically impossible it was for his heart rate to reach those speeds. He didn't want to spoil the moment. 

—

"- and another thing, John," Sherlock continued to say as said man walked into the flat, "why wouldn't one use frosting instead of whipping cream for the treats? The cream is too fluffy, too thin. The texture of the ground-up pills would be too obvious. The thicker the spread, the less noticeable the pills would have been."

"Are you still on about that poisoned snacks case?" asked John, putting his hands in his jacket pocket. "You just keep talking while I'm not here?"

"That depends, how often are you gone?" murmured Sherlock, attention on his laptop screen. He caught a glimpse of John's very stern expression and quickly added, "Never mind. But even you have to admit it is strange. One would think that the victims who consumed the treats would have been able to taste if there was some sort of obvious wrongness of the texture in -"

John pulled something out of his jacket and, in a split second, while Sherlock had his mouth open mid-sentence, popped it in his detective's mouth. It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to get over its initial surprise, and he sank his teeth into it, tasting a milky, sugary tang in his mouth. 

"What was that?" he asked almost uncertainly. 

"Chocolate turtle doves," said John, unwrapping his own. "Molly made them herself. She's selling them to raise money for St. Bart's."

"Really." Sherlock chewed thoughtfully before finishing the sweet and swallowing. "That was... quite good. Tell Molly I enjoyed it."

John raised an eyebrow at him and smirked while he picked up his newspaper. "Why don't you go over there and tell her yourself?" he suggested, heading to the kitchen. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, running his tongue over his teeth, still tasting the chocolate. Maybe he should. That's what normal people do, right? He said quietly, "Thank you, John."

—

"It's just," John continued saying to the sales clerk, "it's just so difficult to shop for him - actually it's difficult doing anything for him."

The girl behind the counter nodded understandingly. "My boyfriend's the same. Nothin pleases him. Holidays is always a real pain."

"I mean, just look at him," John said with as much affection and annoyance only one could say about their lover. He glanced back at his boyfriend, who was making his way through the aisles of the children's toy section across from the counter. Sherlock looked around, not even trying to hide his disdain and unease around the screaming toddlers and stressed out mothers hauling bags and strollers. John could practically see the deductions behind made in that detective's head, the man's lips moving inaudibly as if in silent prayer. 

"Here," the clerk said to John, catching his attention. She handed him a catalog. "You said he likes music? We have CDs. Classic, classical, disco..."

"Disco? Oh god," John laughed, thumbing through the pages. "He plays violin, so I think he'd be more inclined towards classical things. But CDs aren't really his thing."

"I'm sure you'll find something for him at least."

"Yes. Well, thank you for helping me. Happy Christmas!" John waved goodbye to the girl and turned to collect Sherlock, but the detective was no longer in the children's section. He scanned the aisles and to his dismay, found Sherlock seated on the edge of a display box with five or six children standing around him. He was speaking rapidly, pointing he hands in all directions, and the kids watched with fascination. John headed over there quickly. 

"- by her body language itself, it's obvious," Sherlock was saying, gesturing to one of the mothers nearby, "she's having an affair, probably with the husband of the woman she's speaking with."

"I think that's my mum -" one of the boys said. 

"What is an affair?" asked another. 

"Is that your boyfriend?" said a little girl, pointing at John. 

"Huh? Yes, actually." Sherlock took in John's expression and stood immediately. "We'll, I have to be departing now. Remember what I've told you all, and perhaps someday you'll be able to use it to -"

John pulled Sherlock away, muttering something about corrupting young minds, as the children waved goodbye. 

— 

Everyone applauded as Sherlock played the final note of his own version of the Carol of the Bells. He lifted his bow off the string and bowed to them all. 

"That was beautiful, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. 

"Didn't think you could play a bell carol with no bells," Greg commented. 

"That's because you don't think," Sherlock started to say, but John gently elbowed him in the side. "Thank you Lestrade," he said instead, putting on his best smile. 

"You're a lovely player," said Howard, carrying a tray out of the kitchen for Mrs. Hudson. He was Molly's current boyfriend; kind, had a sense of humour, honest. The two of them were getting along fabulously, much more than any of her previous boyfriends. And the best part was that the man didn't bother Sherlock in the slightest. 

"Oh, here, look everyone!" Molly stood by the window, looking outside. "Snow, nice and fresh."

"How lovely," said Mrs. Hudson. Greg and Howard joined them by the window, all taken in by the gently falling show. They murmured together, faces illuminated by the Christmas lights and moonfall outside. 

John started to walk over to join them, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him back into a sort of half-embrace. 

"What is it?" John asked softly. 

"Look up."

John's eyes darted towards the low beam separating the kitchen from the living room. Hanging from it by a shiny green ribbon was a little sprig of -

"Mistletoe?" John blinked up at it curiously. "How did that -?"

"Howard put it up there when he thought no one was looking." Sherlock smirked. "Do you know the reason why people kiss under mistletoe?"

"Do enlighten me."

"Well, in Norse mythology, when Balder was killed by Loki with an arrow made of mistletoe, Frigga wept white berries for him which brought him back. Those are the berries on the plant now, and the legend goes that she bestows a kiss upon anyone who stands under it. Since the ancient times, if two people gathered under mistletoe, they kissed to show their good faith and reconciliation." John tried to say something, but Sherlock continued. "In Victorian times, mistletoe-kissing was very serious business. Of course though, the plant is actually a parasite, and its berries contain toxic amines which are very harmful. So I don't suggest ever eating them, bother the old -"

Sherlock stopped talking suddenly, as John had pulled his face down to his and captured his lips in a slow kiss.


End file.
